Tête à tête
by muchoblidged
Summary: Late into the French Revolution, France stops by Boston on business and has a brief, unpleasant breakfast with America. Pairing/s/: None


France looked disdainfully at the table, at the tea splashed across the cloth, at the cup lazily rolling back and forth on the table. The day had barely begun; the Boston sun was struggling to push through the skin of clouds hovering above the harbor and the early morning wind caused the window panes to rattle in their frames.

"So your revolution was all for show?" He asked quietly, crossing his legs to avoid the stream of tea dribbling down the tablecloth towards him. America worked his jaw and clenched his fists, bracing against the table. France looked at him through bored, half-lidded eyes. "But I can't blame you, really. I suppose if I was as similar to Britain as you are, I would have to make a big spectacle of how not British I was. And what better spectacle than a revolution, oui?" America opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak through his rage. France continued, swirling the tea in his cup idly. "You even flare up like him."

"We're not talking about me, France." America finally ground out.

He forgets to hide his accent when he's angry, France noted. America's London drawl was overpowering his north-eastern slur.

"We're talking about you, alright?" America slid his hands through his hair. "So would you just shut up?"

The rudeness is new. France gave America a tight smile and nodded slowly. But Britain has his crass moments too.

"Thank you." America sat down and righted his teacup. After a pause, he shook his head wearily and ran his hands down his face. "I have too much to deal with to fight you with over...over this. If you want to go to war with half of Europe, that's fine, but I still think you should listen to that...that Robespierre guy. Do you really think you can handle an allied advance and a civil war?"

"I handled yours just fine. And it's not a civil war, it's a revolution."

America's eye twitched visibly and he swallowed hard before continuing. "Come now, France. Be reasonable, would you? I didn't fight a continent. I didn't have people who still wanted the monarchy around. Except for the Tories, but they hardly count. You're up against some formidable forces, really. Their advances -"

"Into my claimed territories? Into the little bits of land I took from them?" France ignored America's annoyed glower and leaned forward. "I'm sure Britain indoctrinated you with all sorts of nonsense about how I'm weak, how I can't win a battle to save my sovereignty. But you should know better. Where would you be without my navy? My army? Sipping taxed English tea with the King's Colors around your neck."

He relaxed somewhat, realizing America would let him have his say. "I may not be able to keep them out of the land I have claimed, but I am dealing with the revolts and I'm keeping everyone else out of my main borders. I am on the verge of taking the Netherlands and everyone else appears to be slinking away with...with their tails between their legs, as you English-speakers like to say."

France ran his index finger around the rim of the cup. "Unsurprisingly, the only remaining adjutants are Britain and Austria. Austria, the one I began the war with, and Britain, the one who never misses a chance to go to war with me."

France met America's eyes, held his burning gaze for as long as he cared to before standing.

"This was...unpleasant, and I am very disappointed my morning had to begin this way."

"I guess we're not going to get to the executions then?"

"They were necessary." He adjusted his cuffs and made his way towards the door.

"The prison break?"

"Also necessary."

"Even the butchering of nobles -"

"America," France turned sharply. "I do not see the need to have to explain myself to you. So long as you're sending me cargo, I don't give a damn what you or anyone else thinks of revolution."

He shrugged on his coat in silence, fidgeted with the lapels and rested his hand on the doorknob. "Thank you for the tea."

"No problem. But France?"

The Frenchman turned, impatient.

"I think you got a little...blood. On your cuff."

France flicked his eyes down to the spot he had been picking to a frayed mess throughout the tea, the red blotch that brought back memories of men and women dying at the hands of men and women, the rust on the ever-dulling blade of his guillotines, crimson staining his streets.

"Merci, America," France murmured. His grip tightened just so on the doorknob as he pulled it open. "So there is."

* * *

A/N: I changed "Union Jack" to "King's Colors" because Union Jack is only used to refer to the flag of Great Britain when it's on sea vessels. Otherwise, it's "the King's Colors" or "the Union Flag".


End file.
